nostalgic for things i've never had;
i sit on the floor in the blue haze of the midnight moon
and let your name mull in my mind like
a coil of smoke i can't catch. your lips
trail down my cerebral cortex and
say 'i wish you weren't so cold' and i tell you i know,
i wish i wasn't this cold either. but i could bleed an ice storm
and still have a chill in my spine to freeze a nation.
robert frost once asked if the world would end in ice or fire,
and if i'm the windchill, you're the spring breeze that wants to destroy me.
I need you to love me, the
same way I need a bullet in the head.
I need you to hold my hand the same
way I need a knife to dance patterns
across my chest and carve out my heart.
I need you gone,
the same way I need oxygen.
#1. i could count all the things i like about you
on one hand
and still have five fingers left to spare.
#2. with you it was like getting bit
by a snake - you either suck the poison out or
you sever the limb.
the latter seemed more plausible.
#3. my eyelids have bruises from all the times
i rolled my eyes trying to predict
the next roll of lies off your lips.
#4. good memories mean nothing when you
use them to skin me alive
#5. in the end, your only redeeming quality was how
you gave me proof that i deserve better.
you are your mother's winter heart and your father's winning charm; an amalgamation of jutting cheekbones and a debonair simplicity. the only daughter of an english lord and his russian heiress wife, you are rarer, more precious than the most uncommon of jewels. you sit within your family on a gilt throne - daddy's little princess, mummy's little doll. what you can't have, you want; what you want, you get. no is not an option. you're the golden child, and golden children are never denied.
as a child, your mother assumed the role of coach - she taught you poise, she taught you wit, she taught you charm. she taught you to slay your enemies in the quietest of ways, so that when they bled out, they did so not knowing you'd even moved an inch. "remember what i tell you, my little dove," your mother would say in that cutting accent of hers, which wrapped her words in ice and silver. and in unison, you'd both recite mummy's words of wisdom, like clockwork figures wound at the same speed, "i am diamond, not ice. i melt for no one; i refuse to cease."
to your father, you were a princess, even if by blood you had no title. you are the sole heir of the braithwaite name and title - three hundred years of history rest on your bones, laying in wait, and you are prepared. you know how to fight - how to pose your ambitions on a smile, how to lock your strategies up tight - but most importantly, you know how to win. you are your father's daughter in all but looks. you are headstrong, cunning, charming. your mother gave you beauty and grace, and confidence that you wear like a coronation crown. but your father, he gave you tools. your father made you a force of nature - a beautiful storm rushing ahead at full speed, stopping for no one or no thing.
but there are thing even he couldn't prepare you - his golden flower, his fearless little girl - for.
I want to love a thunderstorm -
an angry boy with thunder in his eyes,
cut glass teeth and a lightning bolt tongue
that sparks a fire in my veins
with every tumultuous kiss.
Or perhaps a boy with wildfire
flickering in his eyes. With smoke that billows
from the corners of his smirk,
and spills into the capacity
of my unassuming lungs.
Or maybe he'll be a hurricane -
gentle at first, then crashing
and engulfing,
and capturing my seashell heart
in all his saltwater love.
(d.s.)
"You should not wear so much make up. It makes you look so fake and so cheap." Sorry, I'll try not to leave lipstick stains when I tear out your throat with my teeth.
“Everyone – every thing – tears you apart eventually,” he said, flicking ash off from his cigarette, “Whether you know it or not.”
Smoke billowed from his wry grin, and he leaned back for a moment before he went on. It was a balmy night – exceptionally so considering it was only April. But foggy, too – so much so that the mood of the city was in perpetual misery. The fog bred cynicism, which by extent bred despair, and all that could be held accountable towards the faux poeticism that Wyatt had suddenly found himself in the mood of. Or perhaps it couldn’t, seeing as he hadn’t been outside all day.
“And there’s nothing you can do to stop it, either – ‘cause that means that you’d have to stop letting people in. You can stay intact if you’re alone, sure, but then you’re alone. And if you’re not alone –” he paused, coughing, “If you’re not alone, you’re getting torn apart by all these people that you care about. They’re all taking bits and pieces of you and storing them in their back pockets and you can’t do anything to stop it. It’s tragic.”
“Mr. Spencer, I’m not sure that has anything to do with our case,” said the old man directly across from him. He was a straight-laced, serious type – as Wyatt had assumed – with brown hair flecked by grays and copious wrinkles.
“Detective Seeley, I beg to differ. I think that has everything to do with the case,”
The detective looked up at him blankly. “So you stole the exam results as a personal vendetta, you’re trying to say?”
Wyatt laughed with a subtle air of condescension and – caught up in himself – he forgot to answer.
“Mr. Spencer, you’re going to need to explain yourself sooner or later if-”
“I choose later.”
“- If you don’t want to risk permanent expulsion and possibly even a number of criminal charges. May I remind you that the Dean has offered you a very lenient deal here – that if you tell the truth about why you stole the files and where you’re hiding them now, the charges will be dropped and your scholarship will remain intact?”
Wyatt was silent – which was quite uncharacteristic of him. By nature, he was loud and contemptuous.
“Wyatt, you’re going to need to tell us eventually.”
He sighed, deeply. “You want to know why I did it, yeah?” Wyatt said, leaning forward in his chair with a sneer, “well that’s all fine and dandy, but do you even know how I did it?”
Detective Seeley sighed and rubbed his fingertips into his wrinkled temples, visibly agitated.
“We know-”
Wyatt cut him off, and his eyes flickered as he spoke. “It was almost too easy. Once you find out what database the files are on, everything is in reach. It took me ten minutes and fifteen seconds to break through the school firewall, shut down the barriers around the results, and guess the password – YaleLaw4702 –”
“Mr. Spencer, we know how you stole the files. That much isn’t important to us. We need to know where you’ve taken the results, and we need to know soon. Do you know how many peers you’ve put in jeopardy of failing? One hundred and thirty-seven, Mr. Spencer. You have one hundred and thirty-seven lives hanging in the balance.”
Wyatt paused, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion.
“Thirty-eight.”
“What?”
“There were one hundred and thirty-eight results on the file. If you’re going to try and guilt trip me, at least try to get your facts straight.”
“Yes, well that doesn’t quite explain your motives, Mr. –”
Wyatt cut him off with an indignant sigh. “I’m getting there, okay? God, at least entertain me for a bit.”
“Go on then,” muttered Seeley with an air of annoyance.
“Anyway, the password was too easy. Which is ridiculous because this is Yale and we’re an Ivy league school. But I digress. You say you want to know why I took – not stole, that’s such a nasty word – them, but you don’t even realize that I’ve already told you.”
“So you’re saying that it was out of a personal vendetta?”
“No, no. God, no, you’re misinterpreting me here. I didn’t mean that whole spiel as some kind of existentially woeful garbage, I meant it as an actual, honest to God fact of life. You let all these stupid things take pieces of you, yeah, but there’s no reason that you should. They don’t matter in the end.”
“And I realized that. I was sitting in my litigation and social change lecture, and I realized how pointless it all is. The education system is a fraud. They’re just depleting you, no enriching you. They pick you apart and they keep tearing at you, and for what? So I kept thinking about how small and insignificant this damn school was making me and I – Well, I wanted to fight back.”
“So you did.”
“So I stole the results to the finals, and I got them good. They didn’t send you here because they care about those hundred and thirty-eight students, they sent you because they were terrified that a nineteen year old boy had outsmarted them and taken their power source.”
There was a terse silence as Wyatt sat up – with his jaw clenched but his shoulders relaxed – and reached into his pocket.
“The results are on this,” he said, pulling a small, blue USB key out from the pocket of his jeans and motioning as if to pass it to Seeley, only to snake his arm back when Seeley grabbed for it. “Hey now, I didn’t say you can have them yet. I want a deal.”
“We’ve made your deal, Wyatt. Your scholarship will remain intact and the charges will be dropped. Now –”
“I don’t care about my scholarship, or the charges, or any of that. I want recognition. I want it to be known that someone – that I – beat the all-holy Yale University.”
Seeley was quiet, but unrelenting. “Fine. You’ll get the attention you want, but you’re going to have to bear the brunt of it. Being involved in a scandal like this could hurt your chances of being a lawyer.”
After a brief, terse moment, Wyatt handed over key and sneered. “You know, I’m not so sure I want to be a lawyer anymore,” he said, taking his lighter and another cigarette from his pocket. Wedged between his sneering lips, his cigarette came alive and billowed smoke.
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